Bet You Look Good on The Dancefloor
by chalkia
Summary: The White Heron Cup was the only time Hilda has ever looked so passionate and willing to give it her all. And there goes the professor, picking Claude. It had to be a joke. Only not a good one, because she was left fuming. And if she can't represent her house, she'll make sure whoever does wins. See, Claude just happened to be the unlucky one.


Most things the monastery has to offer don't satisfy Hilda.

Early morning jogs and afternoon training. A schedule alternating between classes and duties. She cleans or cooks—gets away pretending she does—but it just doesn't appeal to her the way Ashe or Annette get carried away doing. And she's _seen_ it firsthand, because they're her go-to's.

But, there's a reason it's 'most' things. When she first heard of a dancing competition, her squeal almost shattered mirrors. It was obvious she was the most excited; even Flayn contained herself better. The professor knew, and in the ridiculous case they didn't, Hilda made sure to let them know. Hammer it into their seemingly vacant, absentminded little head, so they wouldn't go around asking anyone else.

And they did just that.

When she's not chatting people up over sweet-talked-earned tea, she eavesdrops. It's no coincidence that she happened to be nearing the hallway's corner when she hears it, _Me?! Don't be unreasonable Teach!, _and frowns. Claude never sounds so distressed. Hilda listens just a tad longer, enough to put two and two together.

The only thing she overtly expressed to committing her heart into, and the professor overlooked it? It's as if they don't even have a heart to begin with!

As far as Hilda knows, they could be inept to dancing. A complete two-left-feet disaster. She's never heard them mention even liking it. Everything was simply wrong, and in times of need, her brain works best.

Her soles crunch under the freshly trimmed grass. Claude feels her presence without fail every time, she knows for a fact, but he doesn't make an attempt to sit down on the bench he takes up all the space laying on. He does have the courtesy to lower his book, though, take a peek of her with those eyes of his. A little sleepily at that.

"So _you're_ the poor sap who snatched my chance at competing." Hilda finally says, watching him carefully. "What in the world was going on the professor's head, I wonder?"

"Beats me," The book closes with a thud. "I'll have you know, yours truly recommended you and Lorenz for the job, but Teach wouldn't even listen. Try giving them your best puppy eyes, see if that makes them change their mind?"

"Tried that already. Didn't work."

"Then, I suppose we'll just have to see what I can come up with."

"_Come up_ with?" Oh, the situation is worse than she expected. Joy. "Claude, there's already a guideline for these things! You might as well get disqualified already if you're going to _come up_ with dance moves!"

"Relax, Hilda," He grins, lazily, burying his nose on the book again. "I'll make a miracle happen, just you wait."

She won't. She won't wait.

See, this is what she knows: Claude, for the most part, sneaks off to places that, if they're not entirely off limits, are not exactly locations you just lounge around without any reasonable business. Luckily, she catches him when he's about to make a turn for the Black Eagles classroom, linking her arms around his and sharply swerving his direction.

"Woah there, Hilda! What gives?"

She brings a finger to her lips, hushing his justified shock. "You won't believe what I just thought of."

"Hey, that's my line. Whatever it is, just lay it on me." He goes quiet in favor of encouraging to go on.

Instead, Hilda just asks him to just keep walking. You'll see_,_ she implies. When it brings them to the yard with the gazebo, he hasn't quite figured her motive out. A quirked brow; she's just running away from doing a duty, isn't she?

"Okay, we're here." She lets go of Claude's arm, and positions herself in front of him. "Out of the pureness of my heart, I've decided to help you out, no fees included this time."

"You. Help _me_." Claude repeats, arms rising to casually be held behind his head.

"With the dancing, silly. And you know I don't do that unless it's dire. Now, show me what you've got."

Claude makes no move to follow her order. In fact, he merely laughs. "Sheesh. I was already planning to save you a dance on the ball, you know that. You don't have to train me to dance with me, Hilda. But, I also don't see why wouldn't you. Anyone, for that matter."

Her eyes go wide, mouth agape as if insulted. It's not reading between the lines if it isn't true, but she can see where the misunderstanding is coming from. Still ridiculous though. "Wha-! That's awfully confident for someone who couldn't be more wrong to say. I'm just ensuring our House the win. There's a prize, remember? And if I can't represent us, then I'll make sure who does will be flawless."

"I don't see the fuss over a couple steps and twirls and dips, but by all means," He straightens, then bows, lifting his head afterwards with a cheeky wink. "Enlighten me."

She does, and she's relentless.

If his shoulders are uneven, if he stutters before a step, if it doesn't feel like it flows correctly, she calls it out. Claude can tell how invested she is in the way she has sharpened and trained her eye for it. It's a little overwhelming, how mindful of everything—even his breathing and expression—he has to be. Still, hand on her waist and hands linked, the proximity is something he doesn't mind terribly.

Flowers only get prettier when looked up close, the perfume sweeter, and her frowns at the small mistakes are particularly endearing. He'll take to the grave he commits some on purpose, just to see that pout.

"Whew, I've got to admit," He says the second Hilda allows a moment of rest, letting himself plop down the grass. "You're pretty good at making this harder than I didn't think it was. I feel like I've improved in this single session more than I have with Teach's several."

"Of course you were going to improve," More carefully, she sits next to him. "Our dear professor just stands there waving their hands and pretending they know what they're doing. For ballroom dancing, a partner is a must, especially if you want to get better."

"Can't think of a better person for the job than my partner in crime, if that's the case." The nudge of his elbow only elicits a laugh from her.

"Yeah, yeah. Now get up, we're not finished yet."

"Wait, we're _not_?"

In truth, she meant to have it be a three-session kind of thing. But upon learning Mercedes and Ferdinand were his competition, even Hilda would've felt the slightest bit threatened. Claude knows, every time he sees her approaching him after lunch these days, that he's bound to burn the calories he consumed.

Whatever worrying he doesn't do, Hilda does for the two of them and double the amount.

* * *

She takes pride in remembering to turn in the novels she borrowed two days before the deadline. Especially when her record of being at least a week late left her vulnerable for a temporary library ban. And when it inevitably happens, despite her best efforts, it won't come as a surprise.

Hilda wouldn't put it past life's whims to have Claude witness it, either, considering he's always lodged in there. She gives him a look of, _See? I can be punctual_, when he watches her and Tomas speak, amused. Then, approaches him.

"What's your read of the day?" Plopping down in the chair, candlelight shaking by her gust of wind, Hilda gathers the answer for herself when she glances at the cover.

'A Compilation of Fódlanese Dances through History'. It makes a brow of hers shoot up, "That's not going to help you dance better, you know."

"No," he agrees, "Not directly. But familiarizing myself with history always helps me get the feel of things. Think about it," and Claude always says that when he wants to provoke, usually and to common people, far fetched ideas. "you're taught the dances as soon as your child self is able to stand without stumbling, but do you really _know _them?"

Her head cants. "I like knowing _how_ to do them."

"I, for one, think there's other questions to be asked," Claude nudges the book, "Take a look at this. Dancing—it's not just limited to courting or showing off skills. Here, it says it can be used for rituals. Even as kinds of prayers." She takes a glance at the pages, and decides his summarized explanation sits with her better than the minuscule letters.

Was she not passionate enough about it, she wouldn't have read the exact same book months ago. What Hilda truly enjoys, she invests into. Time feels so warped in this monastery that she's made of reading a small habit. And she's got her eyes set on the crafts-making book over there, even if it's mostly on religious gold casting.

"Yes, so I've heard," Hilda says, standing up. "I promise I'll give it a read, once I can get Tomas to stop glaring at me."

* * *

She really hopes Hanneman isn't making any rounds through the dormitories' hallways today.

With the chilly bite of the breeze progressively getting cooler, they decide to ditch the gazebo's garden move elsewhere. Where the competition, and especially the professor, won't spot them. Hilda expects Claude won't like her suggesting her room for the task, even if it's the most private place they can get, but it turns out he doesn't mind. He has glanced around it a couple times, on the occasions someone has to knock on her door when she oversleeps.

Hilda mentally pats herself on the back for tricking a knight help clean up her room just yesterday. She shuts the door and locks it, just in case.

It always starts the same way. Hilda insists on bowing before every try, and even if it's goofy to him, he complies with a smile. When in position, she starts humming a song, and that might just be his favorite part of it. Sometimes it's fades to a soft countdown, _and one and_ _two and three and four,_ a tone hardly above a whisper. In the back of his head, her voice keeps humming.

Claude twirls her, and for the grand finale, dips her.

"You didn't mess up. I think you're just about good to go," she says, a little breathless.

"Really? I was starting to like our little sessions." He pulls her back up again, a bit too flush against him than expected.

Hilda only playfully rolls her eyes, as if the proximity doesn't affect her. "Really. But not enough to surpass the master." She lets go of him, finding a seat on the edge of her bed. He follows her.

"Quite the master you are. If you tried different dances that aren't just ballroom and devoted yourself to it, I think could see you performing on all kinds of opera houses across Fódlan." Claude speaks with his eyes lost, as if imagining the picture so perfectly. "Nobles from all over the country, on horseback or through sea, all gathering to see a perform of the Hilda Valentine herself."

He turns to look at her, smiling. Adds, "Or at least I know would."

"Ha, ha," Her head cranes as she leans back and props herself on her palms. She pictured it so gut-wrenchingly perfectly, too. "Can't say it doesn't sound appealing. Dancing's only ever been the only thing I'm really good at, anyway. But it's much too late for that."

No. That's not it.

If it was too late, there would have been a margin of probability in the first place. And before that, she would have at least considered it. The Gonerils are lockets, not dancers or craftsmen.

He frowns. "Says who?"

"Well, everyone! The best dancers out there commit to it when they're suuuper young-"

"No, Hilda, not that." Claude looks her in the eye in a sternness so gentle. She doesn't think she can hold his gaze. "You've got talents you don't realize you have. Dancing just happens to be the one you're confident in."

She doesn't feel her own frown until it deepens.

"Not this again," her body is dead weight against her mattress, a sigh of exasperation. "Go on, give me the usual spiel. I'll quote it along with you. Want me to start?"

He lays down, too, arms behind his head. "I'm _just_ saying," a pause. Softer. His voice is so much softer. "I could go on and on about your strength and artistry and talent at scheming, but I won't." And despite the purposeful irony, he means it. Sounds like it, too. "Not if you don't want me to."

Hilda turns on her side.

"I thought doing the praising was _my_ thing," She smiles, despite the heartbeat echoing on her ears. He can't hear it, too focused on his own.

Claude's head turns to her direction. "I'll give you plenty to praise me for at the competition tomorrow. After all, I happened to get my hands on the best dancer at the monastery."

Hilda doesn't take his promises for granted, even when they're not presented as promises. _Especially_ when they're not presented as promises.

Still, her fingers can't stay still when it's time to perform to the judges.

The music begins. Mercedes and Ferdinand did as good as she expected them to, both charming in their own right. They managed to daze her for a moment there, amidst the twirls and eloquent glow. And maybe she was biased, maybe a little blinded, but they could never as much as try to _imitate_ having the same charisma Claude benefited from. He's easy about this. Confident. Everything falls in place, his expression, his breathing, the dip and return to a straight position.

To her, it's just dreamy.

But even thinking that is a little embarrassing.

Hilda is sure not even Alois, Manuela and Shamir (_Shamir?_) were scrutinizing him the way she does. Still, she's enjoying it, enjoying watching Claude match the countdown going on her head, and taking special satisfaction when he stops the moment her last _and three and four_ is done.

"And I will announce who the winner is…" Her skin crawls. "Right now!" Ugh, that Alois, she mentally groans. "Without any delay!" Manuela and Shamir spit it out without preamble, he's just making this pure torture. "The winner of this year's White Heron Cup is…"

Ferdinand's chest puffs, and Hilda knows he can already hear his name. Too bad that isn't that follows.

"The Golden Deer House!"

The joy that overtakes her is proportional to the one she would've felt if she had been the one dancing. Maybe greater. She looks at him being congratulated by everyone, even Mercedes—oh, that sweet girl—and Ferdinand, gentleman he is. When he looks back, a bit confused she's not on the front rows congratulating him, she mouths, _the gazebo_.

* * *

Enough quiet makes the evenings hazy. And quiet is nice, quiet is what she needs to calm the giddiness that has her feet swaying in the bench. Her nails, a fading peach, scrape the wood under her. There's a tempo still running on her mind, a little shaky from her shivers; she should've brought a jacket. But there's no time to lament that.

Claude arrives within minutes.

"Looks like I kept my word, didn't I?" He makes himself known, cheeky as always, and sits next to her. No books this time.

A smile. "Hush, don't act as if I doubted you."

"Well, the fact you trained me isn't exactly a vote of confidence in my skills."

"I wouldn't have helped you if I didn't think you had potential," she says, "And look at you. Did it flawlessly, even when you think the dance is goofy."

Claude blinks. He goes over some thoughts for a moment, mostly trying to recall if he ever mentioned it aloud. Did he? "Hey now, I never said that."

"You didn't have to," Hilda shrugs. "I could see it in your eyes. That makes your win all the more incredible. You, who don't even like to ballroom dance, managed to outdo even Mercedes and Ferdinand." She sounds proud when she says, "That's pretty impressive, Claude. Congrats."

"It's an honor to hear it from you, milady," and despite the playful honorific, he's earnest. "I'm just lucky we're from the same house."

"Yup. Otherwise you would've never stood a chance."

His laugh sizzles in the cooling air. "It'd be a privilege to lose to you, then."

Quietness takes over again. She lets it.

Hilda looks at him not looking at her. His eyes wander along the roses now, dew sitting atop the petals. His demeanor sparks warmth, so she sits closer.

"I read the book you recommended." Rather, re-read, but that's beside the point. Claude looks surprised at that, which bothers her a little. "It's good," Hilda adds, now her turn to look away. "It's not too long either, so I'm almost done with it."

"I'm glad you're liking it. It made me wonder about all the cultures and their own dances we don't know about since, you know, that book's only limited to Fódlan. I've heard Brigid's are pretty interesting."

"Oh, funny you bring that up," She sways in place, sometimes touching his shoulder with hers and gently nudging him. "I felt like digging around the topic more, but there's not much beyond this book at the monastery, soooo, I asked Petra about it over tea. And honestly? She makes it sound more interesting than any book could. They're certainly… different." Her legs start swaying again, recalling the light on the Princess' face when she asked her. "I plan on talking to Dedue about it, too. I guess I really have been missing out on a lot, for someone who claims to be a pro."

"You wanna know what my advice is? Take some time to travel around once we're out of here. Visit the operas around the country." Claude suggests, and as per habit, his arms fold behind his back.

"Sure! Starting with where you grew up with."

He perks up. "Hah, that's… much, much different from the dances around here. I'm not sure how much you fancy seeing me jumping and rolling around, freeing as it is. And besides, a long journey, unhappy brother, remember?"

"Well, lucky us, I'm an open mind." Hilda assures, even more convinced now that she's caught up on the glint of nostalgia he held on his pupil. "I'm just brainstorming, anyway. But, if you were to show me, just know I'm not opposed."

"I'll keep it in mind." Claude pauses, and stands up. "Actually, make that an I will. Only with one condition." He offers his hand, and she merely glances at it, confused.

She replies with the answer he expected, "Depends, of course."

"If you promise not to outshine this poor sap at the ball too much, then I will. Deal?"

Ah, there it was. The little thoughtful comments that make her heart leap. Even trying to suppress her smile a bit, she fails, a laugh spilling from it. He relishes at the sound, a confidence boost. Taking his hand, it's warmer than she expected. Her face, when she laces their fingers, could rival it with the blush that's spreading evenly.

"Try your best to keep up, then."


End file.
